


Bucky Barnes: The Bartender

by GLiTCH_R



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aliases, Bartender - Freeform, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Without Metal Arm, Bucky feels guilty, Bucky hiding from S.H.I.E.L.D, Bucky hiding from Steve, Bucky scared to meet Steve again, F/M, Friendship, Going undercover, In Hiding, Love, M/M, Nightmares, Original Character(s), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protectiveness, Slice of Life-Adjacent, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, daily life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:11:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GLiTCH_R/pseuds/GLiTCH_R
Summary: Somewhere in the dusty deserts of America, a presumed veteran who lost his left arm on duty wanders up to a lonely little bar in the middle of nowhere. He's lookin' for work and a place to rest his head.But what's his name?"Call me Bucky."





	1. The Vet with No Left Arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in the dusty deserts of America, a presumed veteran who lost his left arm on duty wanders up to a lonely little bar in the middle of nowhere. He's lookin' for work and a place to rest his head. 
> 
> But what's his name?
> 
> "Call me Bucky."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [IMPORTANT(Setting info): This fic takes place after the events of Civil War and before the Events of Infinity War. I might post a prologue at some point but I'm not sure.
> 
> Also, it has kind of a stranger's perspective for the first part of the chapter, since nobody knows who "this guy" is. Dramatic Irony, I guess? Just an 'artistic' choice :P I thought about it a bit and I guess you'd call this perspective something like "Third Person-Stranger" rather than "Third Person-Omnipotent" since the POV isn't giving you all the details? idk lol]

It's a modest little establishment, not too fancy, not too shabby either. It seems pretty popular though, motorcycles, trucks and whatever other tough-as-nails vehicles one could think of are lining the sides of the desolate street in either direction, as well as a few casual ones. It looks like the perfect place for a lone wolf to settle down and forget their troubles for a little while.

Or a long while.

The simple sign in the front calls it 'THE "LAST CHANCE" BAR' in big, bold letters.

A tall man dressed in mostly black walks in, and nobody turns, because he looks exactly like half the other patrons already inside.

Except for one detail: The left arm of his leather jacket is stitched shut and the rest of the sleeve is missing, including the arm expected to be inside it.

His head hangs a little as he absently scans around the room. It seems a lot bigger on the inside, with various tables scattered around and a singular pool table in the center. People from many walks of life dot the room, from cute couples to biker gangs to backpackers. Guess that's what you get when you're the only pit stop for miles.

He walks stiffly to the back, where he finds a stool at the bar and sits with his head low.

 

"You look like you could use a drink, my friend." Says the woman behind the counter, a short, sturdy-built kind of girl with red hair who couldn't have been older than in her late 20's. She skillfully scrubs a tall glass and slides it his way. "What'dya take?"

"...Beer." The man replies sternly.

"..What brand?" She asks.

The man's serious eyes move to look at her through messy locks of long brown hair. Just  _a_ beer.

The woman pauses, somewhat taken off-guard by the deadly stare. "I'll... just.. get you a beer, then."

As the woman runs the tap the new patron takes out his wallet and flips it open in his hand.

Fifty-six dollars, some spare change and a few photos. Such Riches.

The woman slides the glass - now full of some variant of frosty amber alcohol - back to the man and he puts all his bills on the table in front of her. "..And... I need a place to stay." He states in a firm, low voice. After a moment of no response, he sweetens the deal. "I'll work too if you need."

The barkeep glances at him and then at the money a few times, not sure whether he's really serious. She slides it off the table slowly and cautiously and counts up the bills. After all, there _is_  still half a house stuck to the back of this joint even aside from her floor, and the stock room barely takes up a third of it. And she knows how hard some of the veterans have it (which, she assumes he was due to the fact that his  _entire left arm is missing_ , and that sort of thing doesn't just happen anywhere). Plus, she has a double-barrel shotgun under her pillow in case things went south. Which she didn't think would happen, anyway.

What is there to lose? 

 

"Before we strike this deal, I'd appreciate it if I knew what to call ya." She says with an arched eyebrow.

The man downs the tall drink in less than a moment and looks up at her for the first time. He holds out his right hand gently. Apparently, his  _only_ hand.

 

"Call me Bucky."

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was already low on the horizon when Bucky entered, and now brilliant deep blues envelope the whole sky as the bar eventually empties out. The barkeep introduces herself.

Her name is Roselle. Bucky gets the impression that she's a kind soul, a strong woman, and not afraid of a fight. Or a gun.

Bucky likes that.

 

"You're lucky I'm feeling generous today." Roselle begins. "There's an empty guest room that hasn't filled with stock yet. You can take that, but don't expect to live here for free. First thing tomorrow, you're working. Got it?"

"Yes ma'am." Bucky nods respectfully. Even though he towers over the fire-headed woman by a good ten inches, he still knows who's in charge. Besides, Bucky's never afraid to work for what he needs. He even finds himself unexpectedly looking forward to a little bit of simple, honest labor, no matter what Roselle would put him up to tomorrow.

"Ma'am..? I like you already." She smirks. "Other than that, I would appreciate if you would call me Ms. Williams, or Ms. Roselle is fine too." She instructs as she shows the soldier to his room. It's not shabby by any means, the walls are unblemished white and the floor is clean and made of sturdy polished wood. It's just.. very, very empty. "If you do a good job tomorrow, We'll stop by my storage unit in town and pick up a couch or something. But before anything else.." She sniffs at the air in front of him and makes a grimace. "You're hopping in the shower, and I'm washing that outfit of yours."

Bucky threw up his eyebrows a bit. But now that he thought about it, he _hadn't_ washed up quite a while. And there was no arguing with the boss, he already knew. He hung his head with a small smile tugging softly at the sides of his lips. "Yes, ma'am." He replies.

 

Roselle notices that the hardened vet she met only a few hours ago became a lot more friendly once they introduced each other. His whole disposition was just... warmer, she thought absently as she led the man up to the second floor and to the bathroom. "Make sure to get behind your ears," she jokes as he walks in. She pivots on a heel at the door and turns around. Roselle's totally not tempted to take a peek. Not at all. She quickly shuffles away before she can let curiosity get the best of her.

 

The hot water makes Bucky's lungs swell with reinvigorated breath as it beats gently at his back and trickles down his scalp.

Ah, the pleasure to be gained from simple things in life.

He sighs in contentment as he zealously scrapes and scrubs at the layers of dust and dirt and salt on his skin. In this moment of calm it comes to him in another wave how different it feels without his other arm. He definitely felt... lighter..?

His arm wasn't a burdensome weight, and the prototype Shuri had proposed was a lot lighter than that his original, but even then the lightness of his left side was pretty obvious, and he was still having to get used to it. But it wouldn't be long before everything was back to normal.

Right?

 

Bucky finishes washing up and turns off the water, putting a towel over the floor and around his waist. The wide mirror above the sink and countertop strikes him immediately.

He hadn't seen himself without his arm like this before. Or at least, not in a while.

He ghosts his hand over the metal and latex which had been spread over the sharp, torn edges of what used to be his prosthetic. He'd read about something like this happening, somewhere: Where the mind still thinks the arm is there, so it feels ghost sensations, tingling, prickling, stinging, always some kind of pain. He hadn't felt this while there was still  _an_ arm, connecting artificial nerves to the rest of his senses. Somehow it would mostly disappear when he was wearing that jacket he sewed up.

Speaking of which, where is his jacket?

A neatly folded stack of clothes sits on the white countertop, and all Buck's belongings in his other outfit placed neatly beside them. A note on top of the little placement read: "Sorry, couldn't help myself. Was already doing a load of laundry. You'll have 'em back tomorrow."

A small smile washes across the vet's face. How thoughtful and kind this woman was, even for a stranger. 

He _definitely_ was  not going to disappoint her tomorrow.

 

The new outfit consists of a plain white shirt, (which Ms. Roselle had taken the time to tie off and roll up at the left shoulder), Some dark blue jeans (which are  _just_  a little tight, but nothing he can't handle), and... guys' underwear, too? Hm.

Well, at least he was clean, and at least he was clothed.

Bucky pads quietly downstairs with his dusty boots in his hand, aware of how late it must be. He can't quite remember the path to take to get to his empty little room, but he gets there eventually. He isn't tired, but what else does one do in the middle of the night?

Bucky flicks off the light, the room immediately illuminated by a pale blue. Out the windows, he can see the sky, dotted with hundreds of stars.

The cold wood floor stares up at him. Eh. He's slept on worse. He lays down near the wall, folding his... arm.. behind his back and lets the cool violet and indigo light of the starry night sky wash over him as he closes his eyes.

And tries not to think about the nightmares.


	2. The Hard Worker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky adds a stalwart, 'colorful' new character to the "Last Chance" Crew.
> 
> Or, Bucky 'accidentally' threatens another employee, gets catcalled, scares some kids, and somehow manages *not* to get fired at the end of the day.
> 
> So basically, things went pretty well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Info Note: This chapter contains Bucky having lots of self-doubt and being over-critical. Hope I wrote it all ok and hope you enjoy!]

The sun peeks lazily over the horizon and soft rays of light flood the quiet main room of the bar. With it, Bucky promptly awakes.

The first day on the job.

He's sure Ms. Roselle would not be up for at least another hour or so, and he's not about to wake up the boss. He might as well use the time he's awake to do what little he can without instruction.

Buck picks up a broom from a closet and gets to work.

It's a little hard to get used to, besides the fact that the man probably hasn't picked up a broom since the 1930's. One-armed sweeping isn't exactly the easiest thing. But dammit, whatever Bucky can do with two arms, he's determined to do with one. It's just sweeping, for Lord's sake.

So finally, after a good 10 minutes, he gets the hang of it. Whew.

 

The vet turns his back to the door, only for a moment. Within seconds he hears the door quickly slam shut and whips around in full-soldier mode. The man he backs up against the door and presses the broomstick against is understandably panicked, making a couple shocked squawks before The Winter Soldier speaks. "Wʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ? Hᴏᴡ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ɪɴ?" Bucky growls in a commanding voice. He glances up and down at the young man, average height but thin and lean, almost scrawny, with curly black hair and crystal blue eyes. He looks harmless enough, but Buck knows looks can be deceiving. "Wha-- W-who am I? Who the hell are you?! Where is Ms. Williams?!" He calls frantically.

"What's all the fuss?" Asks the boss as she pads down the stairs. "Benny? Is that yo-- Bucky!" She squeaks.

"This guy snuck in, I stopped him at the door." Buck replies firmly, not taking his eyes off the man. Roselle gently swats the broomstick away with fire in her eyes and looks at him. "Buck, he's my friend. I gave him a key." She states sharply, making the tall soldier in front of her falter considerably. "....Oh.." He feels heat flush up his neck and steps away, clearing his throat and looking down. "U- Um.. Sorry." he stammers. He does his busywork elsewhere as Roselle and the young man talk.

"Who the hell is this guy, Rose?!" The man exclaims in a hushed tone. "He was gonna kill me!"

"I'm sure that's not true, Ben. And don't pretend you wouldn't try to do the same thing if it looked like someone was breaking in." Rose reasons back quietly. "His name is Bucky. And he offered to work for that little guest room. He's obviously fallen on hard times, you know how the military chews up and spits out vets like him. He's probably got.. issues, y'know?" Her brow is furrowed.

Ben pauses. "..Well, yeah okay... And I trust your judgement..." He glances back at the rugged soldier, who is definitely not listening to them behind his back. Totally not. "Okay, I guess I can deal with that." He nods.

Roselle smiles. "Good."

 

* * *

 

 

Ms. Roselle puts the two boys to work unloading stock and filling the fridge and freezer. Bucky, being nearly twice the size of the kid he's working with, effortlessly hoists up at least three crates of beverages and items at a time with the one arm alone. Ben can barely carry two with both hands without breaking a sweat, which colors Bucky lightly with both amusement and a bit of pity.

But he doesn't dare make conversation with the boy. Buck knows from experience that threatening someone's life isn't exactly the nicest introduction. So, it's silent work, but not awkward. Thank goodness. But he knows he's probably already on thin ice, pulling a stunt like that on the first damn day. What messes he made, doing things like that. He didn't always have to be a soldier. Maybe just for once he could've asked questions first, and acted later. Hopefully, maybe being here, doing this, would take a few abrasive edges off him that he liked so little.

There's to hoping he'd get the chance after today.

 

After that it's some real cleaning, mopping the floors, cleaning the bathrooms and other dirty jobs. Barnes will never admit it but a small flash of pink rises up his neck when a rough-looking woman at the bar gives him a rather loud whistle as he walks by. Roselle chuckles. She has a feeling that'll be happening a bit more frequently with Buck around.

Cleaning is a longer, more difficult job than loading and Ms. William's standards for cleanliness are meticulous, especially in the bathrooms. But it's not a mystery as to why. After that, it's the kitchen, and then the boss splits them up to work on different sections of the establishment until it's break time at around 2:00. "Get out o' here and burn some of that young, hot energy of yours. Come back in a little while." She smiles.

"Yes ma'am," The boys reply stalwartly.

The maybe-same woman(?) gives Buck another holler on his way out and he pretends not to notice.

 

Bucky sits on his haunches with his back against the warm brick wall of the bar. He watches cars pass. Some stop, and the passengers head inside "Last Chance". Some stay for a while, and some leave right away with a few bags of pit stop goodies that Ms. Williams keeps stocked on the left side of the room. A few little kids that stay outside while one parent goes in look at the man missing an arm and hide behind their other parent's leg. Bucky sighs.

If there's one thing he's thankful for, it's the shade over the front of the bar that keeps it from being absolutely sweltering in the days between summer and fall. But damn, it's only 2:00 p.m and it's hot. it's a good thing he'd found a stick of deodorant laying next to him that morning. He was almost tempted to go back inside where it was cool, but he had a feeling that Ms. Williams wouldn't have taken kindly to her own employees hanging out on the other side of the bar (especially him, especially after this morning). But then again, maybe that was just him reading into it a bit too much. Surely she was going to kick him out for that after the day was over?--

"Hey, you," Ben says, breaking Barnes out of thought as he walks up. He tosses him a water and sits down.

Oh yeah. Water. He probably needed that.

As he opens up the bottle it goes down easier than he expected. His throat had been a lot dryer than he'd thought.. or noticed.. and he downs the whole thing a couple of seconds.

"....Thanks." Buck says hesitantly.

"You don't need to think I'm angry still or never going to talk to you just because of a misunderstanding." Ben huffs quickly.

Bucky whips his head around."...What?"

"I said-- ugh. I said you're fine. I know Roselle wouldn't ever take in a bad egg, even a handsome, mysterious bad egg. And I know I would'a done the same thing if someone walked in before we opened. Or at least.. tried, heh."

  
Buck stumbles over his tongue for a moment. ".. I..."

"-Don't mention it. Who am I to judge you on how you react to stuff..? Plus, I'm pretty sure you outrank me in every possible way anyway." Ben chuckled softly.

 

After a long beat, Buck turns and reaches his hand over. "Hi. I don't think we've been introduced. Call me Bucky." His tone is a little warmer. His eyes are bright and his face is straight yet colored with gentleness.

 

Benny takes his hand with a small smile.. "Benny. Call me Benny."

  

* * *

 

 

The sun begins to lower in the sky, and the work day starts coming to a close. Bucky's done a lot of hard work well, but he's still anxious about what the boss will make of him once the bar is closed up. Sure, he doesn't want to get thrown out on his ass, but he also doesn't want to have wasted all her time and care for him, either. He hates disappointing people. Especially people who put their time into him.

It's his arm. That's what it is. He can't work nearly half as well as he could with his other arm. Hell, even sweeping was hard to do. Without that metal prosthetic, he feels so much less productive. Not to mention the fact that he threatened one of her friends. Yeah. That would be what did it. Bucky begins to pale and avoid Ben and Ms. Roselle, wiping tables in the corners of the rooms as the patrons trickle out the door. When the last man leaves, the size of the room instantly shrinks and Bucky suddenly feels way to close to his 'co- workers'. He sighs and sits at a table he's practically polished to perfection, waiting for his summons.

....

"Bucky," Boss calls from the back. And there it is.

He gets up hesitantly "Yes Ms. Williams," and replies her call formally. What else would be appropriate?

As he approaches, she meets him in the middle. His tall, broad frame shrinks in front of her.

She looks him up and down for a moment, glancing around the room before returning to him with a smile. "Good job today." She puts a hand to his 'good' shoulder. "C'mon, let's pile into the car and get you that furniture."

\--Wait, what?

"Wait, you're.. you're not...?" Bucky stammered in a sort of disbelief.

"Not what?" Rose chuckles.

"You're not.. going to kick me out?" Buck asked, just to be sure he was hearing right.

"Why would I do that? You were a good hard worker today. In fact, I'd hazard to say that you did more and better work today than Benny ever gets done." Benny smirks and rolls his eyes. "And I'm definitely gonna need a hard worker like you for the next little while, so if you plan to keep working like you did today, consider yourself a permanent fixture to the bar." She's beaming at him as she and Benny stride towards the doors, right past the dumbfounded soldier.

Was all that worry really just in his head?

She looks back at him. "...You comin'?"

"U-uh, yes ma'am," He replies, jaw slacked slightly as Ms. Roselle closes up behind them.

 

The three of them pile into Ms. Rose's truck and set off for the city, a good 45- minute drive. Buck is given shotgun and Benny rides in the back, immediately dozing off. It would be pitch black before they made it back, he was sure. but the drive was pretty, surrounded by all that nothing. Just vast miles of knee-high plains grass and hard-packed sand, not another living creature in sight.

"..What made you do it?" Ms. Rose asks softly.

"I.. Uh..?" Buck was a little caught off by the question.

"This morning. What made you react to Benny like that?"

Barnes thinks for a moment. "Well.. I thought he was... an intruder. So, I did what I thought was necessary." He answers honestly.

"Hm."

....

"How did you lose your arm?"

Buck's chest tenses at the question. "I, uh.. I don't know exactly. But I'd.. rather not talk about it, if you don't mind.." He tried not to let his voice fluctuate with the uncertainty he was feeling for some reason.

"Of course. No pressure. Sorry I asked." Ms. Williams says kindly.

"No no, it's alright."

 

Ms. Roselle is admittedly a little hungry for information about the handsome and mysterious stranger she's taken in. It's almost storybook how he just turned up, with his good looks, and his long brown hair, and his deep, brooding blue eyes. And while she'd love to know more about him, she's not one to pry. She figures she'll leave him be, until he feels comfortable enough to share more about himself.

 

Within the hour, they pull up to a storage place and Rose backs the car up to the door of her compartment. They hop out leaving Benny in the back and Ms. Williams throws up the door swiftly.

There are a few various pieces of furniture to choose from, ranging from ugly and ragged to mildly-used and simple. "Take your pick and we'll load it up." She beams.

"Really? From all of this?" Buck strolled through the maze of old couches and beaten up dressers.

"Yup!" Roselle playfully flops down on a couch and pulls out her phone. "Just tell me when you're ready."

 

After a while Buck sets his eyes on a simple looking couch. It's dark grey, and just a little torn, but it looks clean and ready to use. Next to it is a small wooden table of a rather perfect height. "These," He suddenly gestures, scaring Ms. Rose out of her skin as she quickly looks over at him. "These two look great." He has a small smile curved at the edges of his lips and he seems warmer than ever. "Consider it done," Roselle kindly replies before quickly making her way to the other side of the seat. She crouches down and he follows. "Now on my count, lift."

"Yes, ma'am."

 

 

They're back on the road and Bucky's new warmth hasn't faded. His crystal blues shine brightly as he fixes on the horizon. "Thanks again," He repeats gratefully, for probably the third time since they had loaded up.

Rose giggles. "Like I said Bucky, it's no problem. My pleasure. After all, you earned it. Now, no more "thank-yous" until we can go home and set this thing up and I can go to bed."

A faint chuckle ghosts from Bucky's mouth. "Yes ma'am," he sighs.

 

Rose and Buck jointly heave the furniture efficiently into his room and position it into place. "Really, I can't thank--"

"Oh yes you can," Rose stopped him with a cheeky smile. "Now get settled Buck, get some rest in you. I think I have to go wake up Ben so he doesn't sleep in my car for tonight." She gingerly puts her hand to his arm. "I'll see you tomorrow." and strolls out, softly shutting the door behind her.

 

He thinks he can get used to this life. There's hard, fulfilling work in the day to distract him from his thoughts and keep him from getting restless, and a clean, unfussy room to return to for the night. He lays down on the comfy new couch, positioned against the back wall next to the window.

He guesses that this is maybe something close to what it's like to be normal in this day and age. Sure, Sergeant Barnes in the 107th all those years ago wasn't so special, wasn't so different from every other guy back then. But this was a whole different century, and a lot has happened since then, both in his life and in the world around him. But here, out in the middle of nowhere, no metal arm that sticks out like a sore thumb, no team of superhumans at his back, he's just... normal. Just your average ex-military guy, tryin' to survive. He liked that. Maybe Steve would--

No.

No no no no no. He can't think about Steve. Not here, not now. Steve's probably a thousand miles away, doing something important and it's imperative that Bucky doesn't think about Steve.

Barnes collapses back into the couch, closing his eyes and focusing on breathing.

Steve's not here. (But now I can see him.)

Steve isn't' relevant right now. (But isn't he always relevant? To me?)

Steve can't know I'm here. (Because I know he'd come running.)

Steve can't get involved in this. (Because that would be bad for everyone.)

Steve...

 

God, Steve.. (Now I need you.)

 

 

 

...The nightmares will be worse tonight.


	3. I'm Always Nicer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky works hard for his keep. And for the trust of his boss. But not before his past gets in the way, for better or for worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's note: Hello! So sorry for the super-delay between the second chapter and the third chapter! I'm not quite sure how to launch into what I've got planned for this story so far, so bare with me! And thanks for all the support even from the get-go! ^v^ I'm kind of flying this thing blind, and I'm not always sure what to write. But I assure you, I'll always be back with another chapter unless stated otherwise!  
> Wasn't really sure what to do for a cover for this chapter. If anyone has any suggestions, let me know in the comments! And of course, you can always suggest what other things you want to see in this fic, such as Ideas for chapters or new characters! Thank you everyone so much for reading! *heart*]

Bucky wakes up with sore eyes, stained cheeks and a burning throat. He hopes he didn't wake anyone up, the increased intensity of his horrific visions during the night had undoubtedly made him scream bloody murder. Hopefully he had done so into the cushions of his sofa, instead of through the halls of the house.

Working proficiently with little sleep or bad sleep, if it was achieved at all, is not foreign to the Winter Soldier. He fathoms it reasonable that there are dark bags under his eyes as he loads stock, letting the muffled sounds of the radio wash over whatever potential things he could be thinking or feeling at the moment. At least the work he's doing isn't bloody and rife with ill intent, like it had been so many times before; but just a normal job, a simple task, innocent and honest.

Every once in a while he looked out the open door leading to the public space of the bar, seeing Roselle cheerfully pulling taps at a mile a minute. She's definitely skilled at her job, greeting the customers with an inviting smile and making a couple of them laugh as she slides drinks across the bar. She keeps a warm atmosphere in the place.

Some of the patrons seem to know her pretty well, asking about her day, asking about Benny, and various other things. She chuckles politely as one of the patrons tell a corny joke.

Her laugh was pretty.

 

Bucky brings out the last of the stock. Ms. Roselle says she's grateful to have him around for the heavy lifting, because things fly off the shelves quickly when you're the only store for miles, and it's cheapest to buy in bulk. Really, really heavy bulk.

But it's not the weight of the boxes themselves that makes things difficult; it's Bucky's damn missing arm. Half the energy he spends is on finding a way to carry each box without it tumbling out of his grasp. After making her statement of gratitude, Rose doubles back when she sees how much of a struggle he's having with the larger stuff. "Or, maybe you'd prefer to do another job...?" She asks, a little flash of guilt visible in her face.

Now  _that_ wouldn't do.

"No no no, I'm fine!" Buck exclaims softly as he sets the rather large box down on the table. "I can handle it, really. Wouldn't have it any other way." He tries to smile reassuringly, but he's still not completely used to smiling so wide just yet.

Ms. Rose pauses with concern on her face before she relents. "Alright, if you say so. But at least take a nap on your break, looks like all those night terrors really did a number on you."

 

Shit.

"...What?" Buck suddenly felt a tightness in his chest. His expression turns blank and he feels awash with guilt. "I... didn't wake you up, did I...?"

Ms. Williams sighs and pats him on his right shoulder. "Don't worry about that. We're night owls here." She smiles back at him.

"And you weren't that loud, so it's no big deal."

Her smile melts right through him.

"Now c'mon, enough guilty looks on that nice face o' yours. Time to get sweepin'." She nudges him on the shoulder playfully.

"Yes ma'am.." He obliges, his expression softening up to her.

 

The rest of the day, Bucky notices a certain flare of some emotions from Ms. Roselle directed at him, from what he gathers a mix of eager curiosity (which has been present each day before, also) and... No, no not pity, but rather he would describe it as... compassion.

While tending to cleaning work in the afternoon, he ponders on it a bit. There's a part of him that  _does_ wish to tell her about himself. but then what? Then, instead of mysterious, he would just be plain  _crazy_.

And he likes Ms. Roselle. She's a lovely, hospitable gal, and he appreciates her bold, unafraid spirit. And while she had been very willing to take in and accommodate him, he has a feeling she would be much less friendly once he told her that he was a 100-year old super soldier who used to be a brainwashed assassin, and this is actually like the  _3rd time_ he's lost his left arm. Call it a hunch.

And he doesn't feel like losing another friend, or at least he doesn't feel like losing a non-hostile acquaintance(that is, if she doesn't indeed consider Bucky a friend). Maybe someday he'd tell her,  _something,_ at least. Maybe he'd start with his full name, or maybe spin her a yarn about how he lost his arm, or maybe just how he came to land in the middle of nowhere like this. Just something to satiate her curiosity.

But he has a feeling she knows the code. The silent code one might have with a figure such as him. The "don't ask about me, and I won't ask about you" sort of code, where each party can be content with the anonymity among them. Start from scratch; no need for background, no need for details. And that's part of what Bucky likes about her.

Granted, the last  _actual_ conversation he's had with a girl happened about 70-odd years ago, (which nearly about blows Bucky over as he realizes it) but back then, there weren't many girls with the kind of attitude she has. She doesn't beat around the bush and makes it clear that she's the boss.

Which reminds him a lot of Peggy. And of course, Peggy always reminds him of...

 

Buck nearly snaps the handle of the mop in his hand.

_Why did he always have to come back to thinking things like this?_

Bucky tries to stop himself from thinking about him. But of course the less you wanna think about someone, the more you think about 'em.

The stale air in the room is suddenly choking. Buck rushes out the back door.  _This is all wrong._

 

Buck leans on a post supporting the overhang, trying to clear his mind.

Ever since he came out of cryo that very last time, he’s been flooded with so many memories, good and bad; so much _emotion. So much guilt._

He hates these kinds of emotional fogs that form over him sometimes, make it so damn difficult to think straight. You can't work on a cluttered head.

 

"...Bucky?" Ms. Roselle makes Buck nearly jump out of his skin.

Well, that did it- A right scare to focus the mind. Buck swivels around on his heel to stand straight before his boss. "uh-- yes, ma'am?"

She looks at him almost puzzled, her brow furrowed. "You.. Alright?"

"Of course, ma'am." the soldier answers staunchly.

"..Well, eat up, big guy." Rose presents the soldier with a large, hearty looking sandwich. "Gotta keep you fit." He takes it and looks at her with a flash of gratitude. "I.. Thank you very much," He stumbles blankly, realizing he's actually  _starving_. He eagerly leans his back against the post as he immediately takes a whopping bite out of it.

A super soldier needs to eat. Which Buck may or may not have forgotten about- eating. Sure, a man like him could go without food for a good long while, but on the other hand, when he ate,  _he ate._ A number something like 3 times the caloric intake of a normal human absently hovers in the very back of his mind, eating the at-least-two-sitting sandwich in less than a minute or so. 

Ms. Williams leans against the post opposite and watches with an astounded grin as the vet wolfs down his meal so fast, she's not entirely sure she really gave it to him in the first place.

He sighs with satisfaction at a mostly-full stomach. While he still may have been tired, now at least he was fed."Thank you, Ms. Williams." He repeats again, a content expression coming over his features. She nods. "No problem. However, if you don't mind I'd like to ask just one question, if you don't mind." Her repeating of the cautious words makes Buck smile a bit.

"I know strangers like you probably like to stay all anonymous and mysterious, but I think you kind of owe me..." She puts on smile, lifting her brow in a lighthearted manner.

Buck's gaze drops with a sigh. He knew it was inevitable. And he isn't not going to answer, or lie, no matter what she would ask. Because that would be wrong, and Buck was done with doing wrong things. "I can't promise you'll believe the answer," He replies honestly.

"Try me." Rose smirks.

"Then shoot." Says the soldier. After a beat, she looks him dead in the eyes.

"Where are you from?"

 

Wait, what?

Barnes is a bit taken back by the simplicity of the question. Where he's from? Shouldn't she have asked "Why is your arm _actually_ missing", since he had so obviously dodged the question last time, or "Why did you show up here"?

"...I'm from Brooklyn." He answers straightly after a moment.

Roselle nods with a satisfied smile. "Huh. Interesting. Wouldn't take you for a Brooklyn-kinda-guy." She states blankly.

She turns to head in the back door, stopping just before to shoot Barnes another look. "Thanks, Buck." She adds. "Now relax. You're on break." 

 

* * *

 

It's sundown and the bar is closed for business. Roselle gives her new tenant a knowing look, the low-setting sun glinting off her eyes. "You look like you're in need of something to take your mind off things."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Bucky asks, with a sweet nature in his voice as he sits down on the patron side of the bar across from her. While he seems to be a tiny bit brighter in her company, even now he looks like he's about to fall over and pass out. She can tell that currently he's having to force himself to stay alert. He's doing a damn good job, but he's still _having_ to.

"Yes, it is," She shoots back, "And since you didn't take a nap like I told you to this morning..." pulling out a big glass and filling it to the top with a foaming honey-colored beer. "I figure this might make you feel a little better." It slides deftly towards Bucky and stops right in front of him, not a single drop spilled.

Damn that was cool.

Buck takes the glass happily. "Thank you very much, again, ma'am." The frosty drink slides down his throat easy and he thinks of downing it all right then, but he figures he'd savor it a bit to spare conversation. "I'll trade you another question if you could answer one for me." He politely proposes. Rose's brow arches. "Oh? Ask away."

"You first, ma'am."

She smiles. "..Alright, me first." She tends to wiping down the counter absently, with a comical thinking face on that makes Buck grin a bit. "Mm'kay I got one." She sits back down across the table and leans her head on her hands. "Shoot." Buck takes a sip of his beer.

"Bucky's not your real name, is it?"

Again, a total suprisingly simple question which catches Barnes a little off-guard. 

He chuckles to himself, just a little relieved in the back of his mind that she's asking the basic questions instead of skipping straight to the hard stuff. "Ha. No, luckily." He takes another sip. "James. It's James. But everyone just calls me Bucky."

Ms. Rose beams. "Nice to meet you for  _real_ then, Mr. James." She puts out her hand and he shakes it politely.

After a beat, he takes a big gulp of beer and speaks up. "My turn." 

"Okay, go ahead."

"We barely know each other, yet you've taken me in to your home, let me work for keep. And don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful, really." Barnes looks up at her sincerely. "If I may though, why _are_ you being so kind to me?"

Roselle's brow lifts, her face blank. She sighs softly as she thinks about it for a moment, gaze lowering to the flawless polished bar top.

"My dad was a military man, too. Lost half his leg somewhere on duty. Had nightmares, too, after he came back home. When you walked in, I figured you were just the same." She answers honestly. "My dad was a great father, and a good man. But he and all his buddies fell on awful hard times after they came back. When I went to visit him in the shelter, he was always so tired, and ragged.. So I'm always nicer to the vets. Cause they know hard times."

Bucky's jaw slacks a bit. He can see the compassion radiating off of her in front of him. Now he feels even more strongly that he must honor her trust in any and every way possible.

Ms. Rose stops him before he can speak. "No more "thank you's", Mr. Bucky. You earn your keep and you earn it well. That's why you stayed here more than just a night," She grins, nudging him playfully on the arm. "Now finish that beer and wash up."

"Yes ma'am." He downs the glass and stands up straight, saluting with a smile.

As he makes his way back to the house, Benny bursts through the door. "Rose, I found her!" He exclaims with a furry creature tucked in his arms.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky sighs with a content satisfaction as he wraps a towel around his waist, padding down the stairs and into his room. As he opens the door and flicks on the light, he gets a small surprise at the sight of a jet black ball of fur with blue eyes spread out on a stack of folded clothes on his couch. "Mrrow," drawls the creature, with a purr.

"...How.. did you..?" Buck looks at the cat(?) with a confused expression as he walks in. He looks down at the feline cautiously, slowly slipping his clean outfit out from under it. The cat tumbles onto the cushion with an annoyed "Mow." 

"Uh, sorry..?" He replies blankly.

Other than a few specs of cat hair, his old outfit is clean, and even his leather jacket seems to have been given special attention. Perhaps he should do the laundry next time, he thinks as he stretches the t-shirt over his shoulders.

But wait, had he ever even  _used_ a washing machine by himself before? 

It was in the simple things where Bucky usually felt the most disconnected and far from the outside world, the small details that came to everyone else so naturally completely blowing past him sometimes. But how can you blame him? It's not exactly like he's been around to live a  _normal_ life.

But that's what he's here for, isn't it? Other than the fact that Shuri was so sick of him that she kicked him out of her entire  _country_ for a while, he was really back here on a low profile just to try and learn what life was really like for the average Joe in the 21st century. And while, sure, it may have been irresponsible to leave with nothing but the clothes on his back, a plane ticket and some cash, he wasn't looking to live a life of luxury.

In some ways, this was the perfect place for him. Lonely, desolate, but cozy in its own special way. And definitely not a likely place to get recognized, ambushed, and/or arrested. Which was nice.

 

Buck gently puts the cat down outside his door and settles in for the night, the thing complaining 

But this time he can't close his eyes.It's a peculiar tingling sting in his left arm keeping him up.

But he doesn't have a left arm. -Well, he knows that, but apparently his nerves don't.

The sting turns into a low, throbbing pain as soon as he identifies it.

He rolls onto his left side, before wincing harshly and rolling back as it feels like pins and needles are digging into whatever phantom sensation is being identified in his head as his left arm.

Was  _that_ going to start happening every night?

 

Buck sighs, closing his eyes and focusing on breathing.

While he could go without, that doesn't exactly sound the most appealing after last night.

The cold light streaming in through his window is distracting, glinting into his eyes. But at this point, he basically wills himself into becoming oblivious.

He shifts over to lay on his stomach as eyes glaze over.

 

He can already feel a painful shiver crawl up his spine, hearing the terrible drawl of a HYDRA scientist's voice echo distantly in his head before he's even fully closed his eyes.

The soldier grits his teeth and curls up in the crook up the sofa, anticipating the rough night he was about to have.


	4. Communication [1/2...?]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The soldier is given an untappable computer, which he tells himself he'll never use.  
> But his self-promise breaks down when he faces the hypothetical death of Steve Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author note: INSPIRATION STRUCK! Like, this morning. While I was brushing my teeth, I thought of this. And then the rain started falling, and I just, UGH. I JUST HAD TO WRITE.]
> 
> [INSTANT MUSINGS. THE BEST. But uh;; get ready for angsty emotional tension :'D]

 

It's Sunday. The bar, and the house, are empty and quiet.

Barnes wakes up later than he anticipated, with a jolt and a cry. He quickly looks to the clock: 9:00 a.m. Probably because he skipped out on sleep altogether last night, even if just to be rid of that  _damn night terror._

Until he dozed off at dawn and had it  _anyway._ This time, worse than anything. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. He had a throbbing headache, his eyes bloodshot and his face covered in tear stains. His throat was ripped to shreds. That damn terror.

The same nightmare that had occured for 4 nights in a row.

The nightmare that started when that damn  _package_ arrived.

 

* * *

 

Thursday, Buck woke up even worse than the day before. But the day must begin. So he walked it off (barely) and stalwartly got to work.

Ms. Roselle could see the dark bags and rings under his eyes, a little bit of the sparkle absent from them and his skin looking even paler than usual. She insists on him taking the day off, but Buck just wouldn't stand for it. He'd never forgive himself. So, he shows he can work just as well as ever that morning.

Sometime at something like noon, mail came. And there was a package in it. Addressed to Mr. James "Bucky " B.

Bucky admitted that his heart had stopped a moment when Ms. Roselle had pushed the thing into his hand, saying "This is for you, I believe." and walking back behind the bar lined with patrons.

 

_who the hell could've sent him a package?_

 

The thing was flat, and not very heavy, but not very light either. It looked exceedingly average, with that newfangled white box the post was using nowadays. There wasn't even any decisive handwriting, all the labels on the thing were in print.

It looked innocent enough, but The Winter Soldier wasn't about to be deceived by some package with no return sender.

Nobody even knew where he was. Not even Shuri and his Highness, because while they'd prompted his low-profile trip back home, he hadn't taken any communication, hadn't even told them where was  _going_. But then again, now that he thought about it, they were most definitely too smart for that. Probably put some kind of damn tracker in that no good metal stump on the end of his left shoulder. But why would  _they_ send him anything anyway?

It was probably a bomb, or something like that. Or, like, nanomachines, or some kind of thing that was going to incapacitate him, or something. From some group somewhere that wanted him dead, contained, or wanted their  _asset_ back.

"Um, can you excuse me for a moment, Ms. Williams?" He asked politely, the box still tentatively in his grip.

"Sure. Be back in fifteen." She nodded and smiled nonchalantly before returning attention to the customers.

He can hear her cheerfully chatting with a woman as he walked out the front door.

 

He walked far out into the tan dirt, crossing the dusty black asphalt, not looking back until at least several minutes had passed. He was glad he'd left his jacket in his room, because the heat was sweltering.

If it  _was_ a bomb, he wanted to be as far away as possible from Miss Roselle, because she  _certainly_ didn't need to be dragged into his deadly problems.

He kind of hoped it was a bomb. Get it over and done with, get out of everybody's hair for a change-

 

 _Why would you think that?_ He asked himself bitingly.  _You die in action, or you don't die at all. A lot of people are still putting their time and effort into you, you bastard._

 

He cursed himself a few more times before coming to a stop and turning around. He seemed to be far enough away by now, the bar having become a small speck no bigger than a shred of paper. He looked down at the unassuming box gripped in his sweaty palm.

_Here goes nothing._

Buck has to set the thing on the ground and back it against his knees to get it open, which is annoying.

He slips out the contents, and it's....

A laptop. With a note stuck to the top of it.

 

_Bucky_

 

 

_Yes, it's untraceable. Don't worry. Not exactly difficult for a genius like myself._

_Hooked you up on a private message program so we can talk. Just in case._

_Also, there's a phone in here with the same thing._

_Time for you to start getting with the 21st century, white boy._

 

_-Your very smart, cool and supportive friend, Shuri_

Huh. He had a feeling.

 

But then he glanced a little lower down...

 

 _P.S. I also sent one to your boyfr- I mean, Steve._ _Just try to talk to him, why don't you?_

Bucky's heart caught in his throat.

Okay, now there was no way in  _hell_ he was using this thing.

He moved, raising the damn machine above his head to break over his knee.

But he couldn't do that. That would've been unnecessary. And quite frankly, pretty rude. And Bucky didn't  _do_ rude, especially not to his 'what-maybe-could-be-considered-friends'. He gently set down the laptop on the ground, fumbled around in the box for the aforementioned phone and the chargers to both and shoved them in his back pocket, then tucking the laptop under his arm.

 

Bucky almost couldn't get back 'home' fast enough. The flat sheet of plastic and metal under his arm was almost stinging him just by being there.

He was never going to open the thing. He was never going to turn on that phone. That was just a fact, he told himself.

As he entered the door of the bar, he rushed past Roselle politely and into his room.

He sets down the blasted thing on his nightstand and throws the contents of his back pocket on to the sofa like they burned his hands. Barnes doesn't look at them again, slamming the door behind him and regaining some semblance of composure before going back out to face Ms. Williams.

 

she asked what was wrong, of course she did, bless her, but Bucky said that all was well.  _Trust me._

 

He didn't think about it until he came back into his room that night, the sleek black laptop and phone waiting right where he'd put them.

He shoved them under the couch, and was about to pick up the laptop, but...

He couldn't touch it. He didn't want to on his life. And as illogical as this whole aversion was, he couldn't shake it. He just knew that there was no chance in hell he was opening that thing.

 

He laid away from it on the couch that night, the world becoming a blur as his face makes contact with the cushion.

 

And suddenly, he was back. 

 

* * *

 

 

When he opened his eyes again, he was strapped in a chair all too familiar.

Wednesday night, the bastards made him watch as they tracked Steve down. He was seriously outnumbered, at least 20 to 1, but that didn't stop the Captain from taking down at least half the men with ease before he was fully subdued.

It had been less than 24 hours and Bucky was already continuing to participate in his worst nightmare.

It seemed as though they had brought Rogers in while he was away. There were a few scientists in the frigid lab, clipping Russian back and forth. Three, as he could tell. Barnes didn't care enough to listen in; he was too exhausted, his head hurt too much.

The air-tight doors of the lab glide open and a huge entourage of armored men drag a crumbled red, white and blue heap across the floor and throw it at Bucky's feet.

It rolls to a stop, biting back a pained groan. There are streaks of blood over the floor where it lay. It sits up slowly, and a head of golden blond hair, splotched with dirt and red, becomes visible.

Buck's stomach turns inside out and he feels like he's going to retch.

 

There's a man behind him, but he can't look anywhere but down at the captain. The scientists turn to this mystery man. "солдат?" One asks.

 

"Активируйте его.." Orders the man.


	5. Communication [2/2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There Steve is, alive as ever, with his charmed smile and eyes glittering with delight.
> 
> Maybe this is all okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author note: This chapters probably a ways longer than the others, I just couldn't find a decent place to stop for a good while! So I hope this does anyway, just more good stuff to read, right?]

This can't be real.

It was illogical. It was impossible.

It makes Barnes feel as though he's going to throw up his insides, yet his throat is tied shut and ready to burn.

He  _has_ to know this isn't real.

Because Bucky Barnes can't live in a world where he really kills Steve Rogers.

 

* * *

 

The horrific night terror had slowed to an agonizing, horrific crawl, ruling over the course of three nights. Though the moment in which this atrocity lived was probably no longer than a few minutes.

How quickly, how easily, the big things could change, the morbid thought crawled into the very recesses of Bucky's mind. And how long the moments seemed when you were actually  _living_ them.

 

On Thursday night, the bastards had brought the Captain to his feet. The code words had been said, and whether or not he liked it, or could even  _think_ about it now, he was under orders.

"Вы совершили серьезную ошибку, актив," Drawled the man behind him in Russian. His voice seemed familiar, just a bit. But his head was pounding too hard for him to think about it. "Вы не слушались. Вы будете исправлены и сброшены. Но не до вашего наказания."

The unseen man gave the order to release the soldier from his restraints.

In a moment he was on his feet in front of the crumpled heap of a man. But this time, things felt... different. He could feel the still present emotion of fear on his face, it hadn't numbed over with the code like it had so many times before. He could feel the restricted, strangling tightness in his lungs and throat, that came with the absolute terror which he would soon face.

As the Winter Soldier, he would've cared no more about this than all the other cold-blooded assassinations he'd committed. But now it was  **him**. And Steve was  _right there._ Maybe it was some malfunction in that damned machine, or some sick, twisted other programming they'd drilled into him, making him watch through his own eyes _like_   _this._  Somehow, it was even more painful now.

"Убей капитана Америки." Orders the man.

 

Friday night, and back into the horror he dove.

In an instant he was in the ice cold room. His body moved of its own accord. It no longer listened to him, his pleading tries to step away, to refrain, anything.

But he wasn't surprised.

The Soldier started wailing blows into the side of the Captain's face.

"Помедленнее." Clipped the man.

The meaning was interpreted. Make him suffer, don't make it quick. For both of them. So instead, he went for less vital parts of the body first, with nothing but his own fists to use.

He wanted to scream, but his mouth was shut. He wanted to turn around and tear that damn man limb from limb.

This was  _impossible._ What had that man done to him? It was not possible that he could be reactivated, he knew that for a fact. Shuri had tried, nothing had happened. And if it was, Bucky would rather not have lived in that case.

He wanted to glimpse some fight left in his friend's eyes, that twinkle of hope he always saw, even that first time on the bridge.

But it wasn't there.

Rogers never even  _said anything._

No, now this was too easy. The real Steve Rogers would be begging, pleading with him, not for mercy, but for  _Bucky_. That one line that was burned into Barnes' memory, he was  **sure** he'd hear it.

It was silence. Pure silence.

After a while the pounding of his own head drowned out the sound of the one-sided fight, a deafening ring starting to echo faintly from his ears.

 

Saturday, after he'd collapsed on his sofa, the terror coming in a whole new wave as to his horror, he was back here, in this frigid room.

His hands were covered in blood that wasn't his. His fists were repeatedly pummeling into the Captain's head as the red stains seemed to soak through his own skin.

Everything was burning. The room was spinning. His vision was swimming and he was drowning in silence.

He could feel a piercing gaze sear through the back of him, and he desperately wanted to turn around. He was going to turn that bastard inside-out, no matter what. Maybe if he just pushed hard enough, screamed  _loud_ enough, tried  _long_ enough...

His grip lifted the red-soaked and nearly unrecognizable Steve Rogers into the air by his throat, which was already bruised a deep black. The only thing he heard were the last desperate gasps of a dying man, what little life remained draining from his eyes right in front of him.

_He'd finally done it._

 

* * *

 

It's Sunday. The bar, and the house, are empty and quiet.

Buck jolts up as if he's just been electrocuted. He can hear himself screaming for a split second before he's fully awake. 

This room is his own, his empty little residence, the sun glowing softly through the window in warm beams. Was it really that easy? To just snap back to the real world after such a trauma?

The entire night comes flooding back to him in a single instant.

It couldn't have been real. Right? It was all just a nightmare, right?

And yet it claws at him. It felt so real... But it didn't make any sense. It was illogical. It was impossible.

It makes Barnes feel as though he's going to throw up his insides, yet his throat is tied shut and ready to burn. He notices he's shaking. His cheeks are stained with tears, his eyes bloodshot and straining painfully at the sudden light. How vulnerable and sick he felt, his own twisted psyche forcing him through horrors which shocked him to the core so intensely. He'd come so close so many times before... Was it some kind of subconscious morbid curiosity that urged the night terror forward? To see what would  _really_ happen if he had succeeded in his 'mission' those few years ago?

Then arises the perhaps irrational fears:  _Had_ he really done it? Was he remembering instead of dreaming? And was _this_ the illusion, and he was still locked away a hundred feet below the ground in some icy HYDRA facility?

 

Bucky reaches for the laptop.

He has to know it was'nt real.

He flips up the screen with shaky hands. The thing's already logged into some kind of secured communication device, thank God.

There are several lines of bold text in the right column.

**_< Call Shuri>_ **

**_< Video-Call Shuri>_ **

**_< Call T'Challa>_ **

**_< Video-Call T'Challa>_ **

**_< Call Steve Rogers>_ **

**_< Video-Call Steve Rogers>_ **

Buck clicks blindly on the final line. His breathing is quick and his heart is pounding.

He has to see Steve. He has to hear Steve. Then his head will stop spinning. Then he'll be grounded again.

Because Bucky Barnes can't live in a world where he really killed Steve Rogers.

 

**_' >Video-Calling Steve Rogers...'_ **

 

 

****

 

After an agonizing few beats, a video screen displays itself.

 

It's static for a couple seconds before--

 

"Bucky?"

 

 

Buck's heart stops for a good few seconds, his jaw dropped.

 

There Steve is, alive as ever, with his charmed smile and eyes glittering with delight. He's got a bit of stubble edging the sides of his face.

 

Bucky is frozen and the excited expression on Rogers' face slowly turns into careful concern.

"..Bucky?" He asks again.

 

The soldier blinks and almost collects himself. Almost. He wants to say something, anything, but the entire English dictionary has just vanished from Barnes' mind.

 

"..I..." The sound escapes his lips as nothing more than a hoarse whisper at best. Oh, Right. He'd probably been screaming louder than ever last night - which he considers with a flood of guilt, which quickly subsides into only mild concern, since he recalled he'd woken up with his face turned down into the cushion- and it was definitely evident this morning. Barnes clears his throat, wincing at the raw state of his vocal chords.

 

"Steve, I.." He begins, voice coarse, airy and cracking.

"Buck, are you alright?"

"Uh-- Fine. I.. Just... needed to see you." Which is the truth. But other than that, Barnes doesn't have the first clue of what to say.

Steven's smile returns, smaller this time, and he looks kind of touched. "Well, I'm here." He says sweetly.

 

By now Buck's heart has stopped racing.

The quelled fear of seeing Steve had somehow melted away in an instant as soon as he'd laid eyes on his friend, very much healthy and alive. But the guilt is still there; he knows Steve wouldn't have it, seeing him beat himself up like he's so prone to do. And if it hadn't been for that  _damn_ night terror, Bucky could've gone on just like that for ages.

He'd caused so much trouble, so much pain for Rogers. Yet somehow he was always able to forgive him.

Okay, so maybe this isn't as terrible as it had twisted into being in Barnes' head— Steven was right there, happily awaiting even a simple conversation with his oldest friend. Not hurt and afraid, like Buck had convinced himself he'd be.

And Bucky can never disappoint Steve. Not anymore. So, maybe, this was all okay.

 

"It doesn't look like you're in Wakanda anymore. Where are you?" Steve breaks the small beat of silence which had fallen due to Buck's thought.

He snapped back to attention. He still didn't trust this machinery, so he'd be vague. "Out. In the western deserts. Shuri got tired of me," He smiled smally. Also the truth.

Steve lets out a little chuckle which sounds like music to Buck's ears, making his grin widen by a margin.

He takes notice of the surroundings he can see in the periphery of the screen. The rain's falling outside, and it looks as though Steve’s in a hotel room a ways off the ground. "Where are you?" He asks back.

"London, actually." Steve replies, and it looks like there's nothing he'd rather do with his time than this.

Yeah; Maybe this really is all okay. Just being here, knowing that for the first time in a long time, he could calm down in a meaningful way, just talking about whatever comes to mind with his best friend in the world. And sure, what he wouldn't give for Steve to actually be sitting here on the couch with him, sharing a pot of stark black coffee as the sun comes up, but as it came this is a pretty damn good alternative.

He'd have to remind himself to thank Shuri a heap for this thing and to take good care of it.

 

So the sun does rise, and with it so do Bucky's spirits (if not nearly as slowly), because really, right now, there's nothing better to Bucky and Steve than just  _talking_. Sore throat be damned.


	6. That’s What I’m Here For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky talk. For hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (From [mostly...?] Steve's POV !)
> 
> (Author’s note: Sorry once again, for the awful delay! Life just gets in the way of nice things sometimes >:T But here’s another chapter, I hope it doesn’t completely suck ! Also features Steve being wholesome, but when is Steve NOT wholesome, really. Anyway, enjoy! <3)

It's only when Steve looks at the clock that he realizes it's turned from 5:00 to 6:00 and the sun has crawled a ways down the sky.

He and Bucky probably started this call very differently. He'd gathered from what little information buck had gifted him with— because honestly, he feels blessed that the man is talking to him at all, and he'd be  _damned_ if he'd jeopardize that by prying— that his mornings had been tough this week; even tougher than usual. His company is welcome relief, Steve gathers.

Buck told Steve that he'd settled down in a little cozy nook in the middle of nowhere, a small comfort which Steve hasn't the privilege of finding yet. He'd told Steve joyfully (Which, on the face of Bucky Barnes, these days, was nothing more than the hint of a smile and an upward tilt of the eyebrow, but Steve knows) about Ms. Roselle, the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, bold young woman that's taken him in so very kindly. "I think you'd like her, Steven." Buck had said with a wistful smile. The unspoken words Barnes thought were "Because she's just like Peggy."

Steve heard them faintly, because of the way Barnes had described her, the way she was, what she said. And the same smile appeared on his whiskered face.

 

For the majority of the time Steve just asks about Bucky, how he is, if he needs anything, because Lord knows, Steven would drop everything to do whatever Bucky asked. And Buck knows this, and feels a bit (a lot) guilty about it, so of course he insists he's fine.

When Steve finally allows Buck to catch his breath, Bucky gets a word in. "Enough about me, Steve. I wanna hear about you now." He says with a small smile curling at the edge of his lips. "I'm sure it's been way tougher for you than it has for me so far. After all, I've only been gone for a week or two. You, on the other hand.." A flash of concern, or maybe guilt— Rogers can't quite place it, but it's much deeper than Buck is wanting to let on— comes over his face.

Steve hangs his head for a moment, smiling sullenly.

Of course, they were always like this. If one of them  _broke_ something, all they'd worry about was the light bruise on the other.

And Steve worries about him, of course he worries, he always worries. But this was definitely more characteristic to Barnes, (who'd  _lived_ with a man where that sort of thing needed worrying about) but even more so of the Barnes of the 21st century.

"Oh, Buck. I'm just fine. Better than fine, now." Steve replies earnestly, looking through the screen to his friend. He can see the expression lift a little, but there's still that brumous feeling underneath, the slight knit of the brow, and that greyish-blue tint in the eyes.

Like a stormy ocean, Steve thinks; Buck's always got that grey blue hanging over him. Like a subdued, general kind of sad. And in moments like this it seems to get darker in some way. But right now that seems frankly unacceptable.

"I'm really glad that I wasn't on the move when you called," Steve says lightly. "I was sort of wondering when you would. Shuri told me yours was going to arrive a lot later than mine. When did it reach you?"

That seems a dodgy question for some reason. Buck glances around the edges of the monitor, picking his words for a beat. "A little while ago," Which doesn't seem entirely honest, but Steve knows that Buck doesn’t lie to him; not in this century, at least. "It, um.. took some time to set up." Again, just a little excuse.

Here it occurs to Steve, that Buck might be feeling... guilty? Perhaps about not calling sooner. Perhaps about not calling at all. But he already knows exactly how that conversation would go. He would bring it up, and then those greys in Buck’s eyes would deepen, and his features would contort even further into guilt. And that, for Steve, was simply **not** an option. So, Steve could handle a couple sidesteps here and there to save the grief.

So Buck asks about Rogers, and listens just as intently; Steve talks about wandering from hotel to hotel, finding odd jobs here and there, getting into minor troubles, and keeping himself busy. He mentions that earlier he’d gotten stuck outside in the rain and soaked through, only just barely getting the call as he finished drying off. And he talks about this touching experience, which it seems he’s been itching to do for some time, he had in the first week he was in England. As he’d driven in he pulled over to help this older couple with their broken down car and they’d let him follow the few miles home for dinner in their cozy little house, and the wife had just _insisted_  that he sleep on the couch for the night, and well. Steve Rogers doesn’t say no to nice ladies.

”They made me leave with a packed lunch. A _packed lunch,_  Buck. Just like I was in elementary school again.” Steve chuckles.

And that makes Buck smile wide, a hint of a laugh on his lips. A little glint of something hopeful and sunny comes over his eyes, and it’s not hard to guess what he’s thinking now. Probably, of a Steve, ten times smaller, and undoubtedly ten times younger too, with legs like twigs and a spirit too big for his body.

Even if predictable, Buck is always sincere like that.

 

At a certain point, Buck realizes that he should probably get some work done, even though the house and bar are empty.

He skillfully pins the computer between his elbow and his side and opens the door. He then props the thing upright in his palm and promptly shows 'him' his room, and the bar, when asked.

He sets ‘Steve’ down at the end of the bar and starts to wipe down the other side with a rag from under the counter.

"Looks like you've landed yourself a good gig already, Barnes." Steve smiles, seeing his friend at work.

"Oh, well, it's mostly Ms. Williams that made it happen," He answers, rubbing a few stains off the glass counter top. "Truth be told, I thought for sure she was going to kick me out on the first day. But apparently, she saw something in me, I guess."

That look on his face; hat shy smile, the careful glance. If the Bucky from the 40's had walked into the so-called "Last Chance" Bar instead of the Bucky Steve knows now, his first move would've been to try and sweet-talk the young boss girl, try and sweep her off her feet with a charming smile and sugary words. But Buck doesn't work like that anymore. Sure, he does some things the more honest, hard working way now, but he also doesn't have that same confidence in himself he did before.

Humble, to a fault, self-deprivating and degrading to no end, and still in a hundred little pieces, is the Bucky Steve sees now. And while there are good days, and bad days, nice times, and ugly times, the whole of his state of being is far from what he deserves, far from what Steven wishes he could give him.

If money could buy the kind of happiness Buck needs, Rogers would happily rob a national treasury to do it.

 

As the sun crests the top of the sky in Bucky's dustbowl, it just about disappears from Steve's sky, if it could be visible at all in between the cloud cover. After doing all that could be done around the bar, his boss still seemingly absent, Buck takes a seat at one of the tables near the door and sets the laptop down on it to face him.

"You said she's always been here in the mornin'?" Steve asks behind his back, as he finally peels off his now only damp shirt in favor of some fresh sleep clothes.

"Yeah.. I mean, I've been getting up before the both of 'em, but today I... didn't." He scratches his chin.

Steve can't see that, but he can still hear a little hint of gloomy color in his voice, the same color as the dark sky outside. "From what I hear, you sure needed the sleep, Buck. After all, Sunday's the day of rest, remember?" Rogers throws a hopeful smile as he wrestles on a t-shirt and comes to sit on the edge of his bed with 'Bucky' in his lap.

This too gets Bucky to lighten up a bit. "Oh, Steven." He shakes his head, Rogers' smile infectious and he huffs in amusement. "You haven't changed a bit."

That statement stirs a few different colors in Steve's heart, but he resolves to give what he thinks might be a positive response. "That's what I'm here for, Bucky." And he grins wider, warmer.

He's satisfied when Buck's gloom lifts until it's even lighter than before.

 

As Buck and he are in the middle of a conversation about good one-armed exercises, a key turns in a lock and the sound of clicking heels can be heard over the speakers. Steve can see Buck look to his left and quickly stand, almost to attention. "Ms. Roselle, uh, good morning." He says in surprise. Ah, so that's who it is. And while at first Steve is happy to meet the girl Bucky had talked so much about, he then in an instant lurches into thoughts of cautious paranoia.

What if the Girl, Ms. Williams, recognizes him? He's not exactly a stranger to America. And then what if she puts it together that Bucky is, well..  _Bucky?_ What if she kicks him out for it? What if she calls the police, gets him arrested, gets him  _killed?_

Steven pales and quickly shuts the laptop. He can still hear them, but at least now there's no chance he'll jeopardize anything. And now there's so many possible futures filling his head,  _what if this, what if that, what if ..._

"Sorry, I was at church," The girl's voice. "I was going to tell you, but you looked like you were totally out of it when I peaked in." She sounds sincere.

"I.. That's alright ma'am. I- I took the liberty of doing a few house chores while you were gone," A shy tone hints in Barnes' voice. "Is there anything in particular you wanted me to do today?"

"Day of rest, Bucky. Bar's closed, chill out, don't worry about -- hey, is that a laptop you've got there..?"

 

* * *

 

"...Steve?"

The sound comes in, unsure on the other end. A long pause.

 

"Steve are you still there?"

This time it's more frantic and it clears the haze in Steve's head quickly.

He blinks awarely; He isn't sure how long he's been staring at the ceiling, the computer warming his lap as he laid still in wary caution. But it's pretty much dark now, only the last hints of actual sunlight coming in blurry blotches through his window and landing on the featureless, white wall above him. He's been laying there for... some time, and at first, he was acutely listening to the feedback coming through the speakers of his laptop. Just listening, to Bucky's voice, to the young girl, perhaps creating a profile of her—maybe deeming if she was likely to do anything to harm her newest employee?— perhaps sifting out potential clues to where Bucky was—To be fair, Steve is liable to always do things like that— maybe trying to identify any threats nearby? To be honest, he's not quite sure. Not now, anyways.

The sound of Bucky's voice makes Steve sit up immediately when he comes out of his haze. But he forgets to respond, and he's hesitant to lift up his screen again.

 

".. _Steven?_ "

 

_Dammit._

That last plea makes his heart ache. His jaw tightens and he quickly flings up the screen, praying that the camera would turn on again.

The bright screen makes his eyes hurt for a split second before they adjust to the sudden light that would take anyone ten times longer.

He can see the unsure, fretful expression on Buck's face melt away as soon as Steve comes back into view. 

"I'm here, Buck. I'm here." He affirms quickly.

"Well.. Where did you go?" There's still an obvious edge in his friend's voice. "I was going to introduce you to Ms. Williams but you just.. disappeared?"

"I know.. But I didn't want to risk it. Her seeing me, I mean. Because if she knew who I was, well.." Steve hangs his head as he trails off.

Bucky doesn’t say anything in response. And it’s a thoughtful sort of silence. “I mean, I didn’t want to end the call,” Steve continues after a moment. “But I just couldn’t accept the possibility that I might mess you up, over there.”

”Rogers..” Buck sighs.

”What?” Steve looks up, and instead of seeing disappointment or hurt on his friend’s face, he sees a small knowing smile. Bucky chuckles to himself. “How do you always manage to think about _me_ first?” He looks at ‘Steve’ earnestly, a sweet light playing off his eyes, back in his room.

The color of Bucky right now makes Steve’s heart swell.

He grins widely. ”Because that’s what I’m here for, Bucky.”


	7. The Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes for a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's note: WOW aren't I the worst! Sorry I'm slow as molasses when it comes to updating, I'm trying to do my best ! TuT I hope this chapter is good at all and isn't a total bust ;u;]

Steve and Bucky don't hang up until Steve's falling asleep in his real bed that Bucky's just a little jealous of. Apparently, he'd done a good job hiding that he was  _that_ tied. He makes a little whine when Buck tells him to turn in, but he does what he's told, because Steve never says no to Bucky. And it's a slightly sad, but wholly sweet goodbye.

And then Buck's alone, again. Not really alone, but  _alone_. Because Steve's still a couple thousand miles away, no longer right in front of him And Shuri's even further. And it seems as though the world's gotten emptier, now that he's not close to them.

At least he knows for sure Steve's still  _alive,_ as he thinks back to his panic earlier in the day.  The ground is much more solid under Buck's feet now; He can hang on to what little threads of sanity he has for a little longer. But now that he's seen what a lifesaver seeing Steve was, he doesn't think he can convince himself not to try and call again as soon as possible. And for a while he's just sitting there, the computer still on his lap closed, his head a little clouded and his fingers twitching to do something that will bring Steve's face, voice, anything, back to him.

_Hazy head. Unproductive. **Not acceptable**._

So Bucky gets up. But Ms. Roselle still has nothing for him to do. He downs a bottle of water and hesitantly addresses her again. "Do.. Would you mind if I went out? Just.. Just went for a walk, down the road?" He's not sure why he's asking, but he both desperately wants to get out and is almost scared of going out alone, like a little kid. But then he'd truly be alone. Alone everywhere. And somehow right now that's better than just alone.

 

Roselle practically unhooks Barnes from a leash of his own making and he's bolting down the side of the road as soon as he's out the door. He's just pounding into the ground and propelling forward as if he's running for his life an he can feel the prickly light uneven feeling on his left side and his legs quickly burning from the sudden activity.

And he's  _panting_ now, and it feels  **good** — All the wind is blowing and the sun is shining, and he's only burning from the inside not the outside— for a gleeful carefree moment eh can see he and Steve racing down the road in Brooklyn, to the ice cream shop, and the baseball field and the park, and he eventually either carrying Steve or slowing down while his asthma cools down. And he grins wide, finally feeling a little sunny as he thinks how just perfect this inconsequential little moment woul be if Steve were racing him now, just like old times, but no need to slow down, ever.

He's burning in the best way, from his feet to the tips of his fingers. Pushing out full strength and exertion for the first time in a long time. And it just feels good.

At some indiscernable point he stops, supposedly his limbs having been fulfilled of the need to exhaust themselves to the fullest extent.

He lays unceremoniously down on the warm sandy dirt with a big stupid smile on his face. For a moment he looks up at the sky, and smiles a bit wider at the little thought that somewhere, Steve could possibly be looking up at the same exact sky. Bucky closes his eyes and just lets the cool wind wash over him he slowly comes back to himself and he cools down. He needed a rush like that; a quick burst of adrenaline with no warm up— keeps him on his toes. And half-sane, sometimes. Managing physical health is easy when you're him. Part of the reason he likes it so much, one of the few good things he knows he can do well.

After a beat he closes his eyes peacefully, relaxing his arm behind his head and crossing his legs, and lets the time pass.

 

Something interrupts the sunlight streaming down on his face and he feels something wet graze his cheek. Buck opens his eyes quizzically, and sees a furry, scraggly face staring down at him. A big, skinny matted mutt backs away and bows  his head as soon as Buck sits up. The thing looks in an awful state; like it hasn't had food in months.

This is a puzzle. The thing looks sickly, and kinds of reminds Bucky of himself, in a way that probably isn't healthy. Of course he wants to take care of it, or at least give some scraps from the dirty dishes. But it's not exactly good employee— or house guest— etiquette to bring a stray pup in out of the blue.

Maybe he'll just tell Ms. Rose about him, and hope the thing either follows him or wanders back. Maybe he'll just keep it outside, surely she wouldn't have a problem with that..?

Buck comes to sit on his haunches to get closer to it, but the mutt backs away. Its regal ears are folded back and its eyes look big and sad. It looks maybe like the approximation of a German shepherd, or a breed not far off, it's a bit hard to tell with its skin hanging off its bones like that. "Hey, it's okay, bud." Barnes reassures softly, experimentally holding out his hand gently.

Slowly, the stray steps closer, sniffing carefully at Bucky's flesh fingertips. Once it doesn't jump back, Buck gingerly rubs his thumb over the dog's snout. That's when he notices that it's tail is clipped, amputated halfway down from where it should end, in a slowly wagging stump. And now he  _really_ feels bad. So Bucky resolves to return with the mutt in tow. He gets up slowly so as not to spook it and looks back. He must've run at least a long while because the bar is only barely a speck on the horizon.

He's not going to run, because the dog might be too weak. So he begins to walk, whistling for the pup to follow.

 

When he returned it was late afternoon and the stray had followed him the whole way. Buck approached Ms. Roselle tentatively about the dog but she had been more than happy to at least leash him up outside the back door with some water and a blanket. In return Buck promised to help cook dinner as payment (even though Benny told him it was totally unnecessary, but be damned if Buck wasn't going to be useful). He helps chop some onions, somehow manages to prep some potatoes for the oven and slice up a few carrots before Ben shooes him out of the kitchen with a smile.

Steak and vegetables is a welcome meal and lifts everyone's spirits quite well. Williams and Grandeau glance over in subdued surprise at how quickly Barnes wolfs down most of everything on his plate save some fat off the meat for the dog, all the while managing to engage in what he thinks might be pleasant conversation, about whatever, really. More than once he says something he hadn't considered to be remotely funny, just a simple statement, if a little ignorant of current trends, and both Benny and Roselle crack up laughing. It makes him equal parts nervous that they might catch onto the fact that he's perhaps conspicuously not up to date with the rest of the world, and satisfied that he amuses them light-heartedly, even if unintentionally. After a while he politely excuses himself from his place at the barstool.

The quiet background music blurs as Bucky passes the stairwell of the house, the stockroom, and his door before going out the back door to check up on the raggedy pup. It wags its tail as it sees him and looks up at him gratefully when he gently slides the plate of meat onto the ground in front of him. After the mutts pretty much licked the plate clean, Buck goes back in and insists on washing the dishes when everyone's finished, no matter how difficult it might be with just one arm to spare.

Roselle pours a round, Barnes manages to keep up the pleasant talking, and then t:hey each part for the evening.

 

Buck slips into the shower gratefully when he sees the bathroom's vacant. It feels nice after that excercize and Barnes spends a little more time than necessary under the warm water.

When he enters his room the first thing he notices isn't the black cat (which he learned on Thursday, that her name was Lucky) strutting out the door as soon as he opens it, but rather the bright blinking light on the small communicator on his nightstand, which he guesses might be called a smartphone. He hasn't ever turned it on before.

Picking it up and getting it to work is so far easy. It dawns on him he's seen these sorts of devices many times before, and he's seen them be used (hell, even Ms. Williams has one) but he's never actually used on himself before. But it's not too hard to grasp, from what he can tell.

The blinking light is a message from Shuri, apparently. He opens up a program in which her face and name are displayed above a bar of text which its assumed she sent.

 

**_Today, 9:30 p.m._ **

_Hi! Enjoying ur new toys? I saw that u and the Cap had a lil call. Good for u guys ! Text me back when u get this, if u even know how, ha ha._

 

He smiles. Shuri always knows how to keep just the right attitude.

 

* * *

 

 

Barnes isn't going to sleep. Not tonight. Now after last night, and all that helpless horror.

He learns to text, sort of, and re-learns how to use Google, kind of, to look up the time zone difference between there and London, and then he learns how to set a timer for when Steve will be experiencing 10:00 a.m. Buck knows well Steve is an early bird, but he wants to give the man a chance to get some things done and stops himself from calling any sooner.

Shuri teaches Bucky how to call, how to take and send pictures, and videos, and how to download things, with the warning "Don't go downloading viruses onto my tech, Barnes". Later Shuri would have to tell him what a virus, in this case, is.

Buck does his best to take a picture of his room, of outside his window, of the sky just because, and of course of the dog. So he sends the blurry, dim lit image of his new stray to Shuri.

 

**_10:47 p.m._ **

_Is this how you do it? -B_

_**10:49 p.m.**  
_

_Yes lol. Who's this? Poor thing looks awful._

**_10:50 p.m._ **

_He's a stray. I found him on a run. -B_

**_10:51 p.m._ **

_Ah. Does he have a name?_

**_10:53 p.m._ **

_Well, he doesn't have any tags, so I guess it's up to me. -B_

_**10:54 p.m.**  
_

_You should show Captain Rogers._

**_10:52 p.m._ **

_I'm going to, believe me. -B_

**_10:52 p.m._ **

_Ha ha, why do you keep signing your texts?_

**_10:56 p.m._ **

_Am I not supposed to? You usually sign notes when you leave them for someone. -B_

**_10:56 p.m._ **

_Huh, I never thought of it that way. That's cute ^u^_

**_10:57 p.m._ **

_I'll talk to you later, I'm going to try and talk to Steve again now. -B_

_**10:57 p.m.**  
_

_Bye bye sweetie. -S (;P)_

 

 

Bucky hesitates before he calls again. What if Steve will be annoyed or mad at him that he called again? What if Steve's busy and Bucky's distracting him? What if Steve doesn't want to talk? What if--

The phone's ringing. And now he can't just ignore it, because Steve's calling  _him_.

There's a little button simulated on the screen that Shuri told him will pick up the call and he holds the thing awkwardly to his ear like she instructed him to. Apparently its very similar to the old phones they had so he speaks hesitantly to the air.

"I.. Steve?"

He can hear a sigh on the other end.

"Oh, Buck. I wasn't sure you'd pick up." It's definitely Steve and it's like a rush of warm air to hear his voice again.

"Why... Wouldn't I pick up?" Buck tries to sound with that same confidence he used to, maybe more for Steve than anything, but that's such a foreign concept now that he doesn't pull it off in the slightest. Nevertheless, his friend is more than content. A rather large, piteous part of him is surprised that's the case.

 

 Steven looks like a sight for sore eyes in the warm, glittering sunlight streaming through his window, when Buck finally can't take it and half begs him to turn on the camera function. In the back of his mind something  edges at his thoughts that tells him something is wrong with the way he's so guilt ridden and afraid of seeing the man's  face again, even though every time he does it makes him the happiest, most grateful man alive.

"I never asked before, How was your day?" Steve asks earnestly. This, Buck could actually answer truthfully for once; This day stood out as more than just normal. It was "..Good." Barnes resolves after a moment, a grin tugging at his lips in a way that clearly makes Steve very happy. Bucky'll have to start having 'good' days more often.

He sends pictures of the stray during the call, to which Steve asks him to please take good care of it, and while he was going to before there’s no doubt he will now. Cos there’s no task Steve can give that Buck won’t follow.

The more Buck looks at the warm screen the more the world he’s in melts away. He can smell the coffee when Steve brews it, the comfy, pillowy bed sheets under him, and the brisk but refreshing morning air when he opens the window just a touch. It’s Steve’s turn to want Buck by his side. “What I wouldn’t give, so that you could be here..” Steve sighs wistfully into his coffee. “Even so that you could just have a real damn bed.”

”Steve, I’m alright,” Buck insists with an easy smile, even though Steve can’t see it from where he set his phone down at the foot of the bed. He’s sitting a bit away, far enough that Buck can see the whole of the top half of his body through the camera. He still hasn't shaved that stubble. It looks like maybe Steve's undercover, or maybe just laying low, in a plaid flannel rolled up to his forearms that fits him just a bit too well. Steve gazes out the window, arms folded, steaming mug in hand. "Y'can't live on couch sleep forever, Buck," He responds tenderly. Buck knows that's not true, and Steve does too, but it's more like "You **_shouldn't_** live on couch sleep", because nothing beats a legitimate bed with pillows and covers and the whole deal, God knows.

"Would it make you feel better if I got some sheets and a pillow?" Bucky asks half jokingly.

"...Yes." Steve sips his coffee.

Buck's smile widens. "I'll ask tomorrow." When Steve turns his head to him in protest, Bucky adds "She's asleep already, Steve. I'll ask tomorrow for sure."

"Good." Rogers concludes, turning back.

 

After a pause, Buck feels the need to ask.

 

"How.. How would you feel.. about... I dunno.. visiting..?" The sentence is so stunted and unsure but Buck can't bring himself to say it any better save he choke on his own tongue.

Steve immediately turns his full attention back to the man through the camera. He has this glowing look on his face, where he's not quite smiling but he looks overjoyed nonetheless.

 

"I— I'd love to, Bucky." He replies.


	8. The Peacemaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's going great. Until Bucky has to break up a potential bar fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's note: Hello everyone! Might be taking a little time off from updating this story. Or maybe not, who knows? ;P But don't worry, it'll only be for December, and in the meantime I may write some cute little holiday stories or something, or even churn out some more chapters for my other long-running story with my friend, Madi. See you... Soon? ^v^]

Bucky sleeps soundly— or at least much more so than before— that night. And the nights after. For two full weeks Buck starts his morning when Steve starts his night, and ends the day as Steve wakes up. And the night terrors, on the whole, seem almost to disappear. Miss Williams notices a decidedly rather sunny change in attitude from her dutiful employee. He starts humming ever so quietly to some of the repeats on the radio, and starts smiling a little more, and Benny notices some of his tasks already done at the beginning of the day before he does them.

Steve encourages more long morning runs, and Shuri checks in every so often, even if for nothing more than to crack a joke and make those funny little faces out of punctuation marks. It makes a milestone to look forward to;  _When I wake up, they'll be there. Steve'll be there. And when I go down, Steve'll be there. Waiting for me._ And whenever Buck gets that guilty look on his face, that look of not feeling deserving, not feeling worth all this care, Steve and Shuri scold it right off, by saying things like "Stop being all mopy white boy, no moping allowed" (From Shuri) or "You're worth all of it, Bucky. Please, remember that" (From Steve).

 

The mutt starts to get its strength back and begins to look a lot more like a dog and less like a bag of bones. On Tuesday, Buck got a hose out after work and washed the dog's blackened matted fur clean. It takes an obvious shine to him, and always gets excited when he comes around.

It makes him wonder if he could get away with taking off its tether and just letting it roam free. He has a feeling that by now the thing wouldn't run away, now that it's got a friend in him.

"Have you named your pup yet?" Steve asks, sipping on a cup of fresh joe. This morning he's pretending as though it's sunrise for him too. The whiskers that frame his face are now more than a little distracting. Not only for the fact that Bucky's eyes (let alone the world) have never seen a Steve with any more than five-o-clock shadow before, but also that it makes him feel emotions which he's sure were once known to him at some point but have since been wiped away and cloaked into obscurity.

"Huh. I actually haven't thought about it, honestly." Buck answers. "Mostly just call 'im 'dog'."

"It's a he?"

"I... Haven't checked that either. He rubs his neck sheepishly. Steve chuckles softly to himself. "Then what's a good girl-boy name?"

Bucky and Steve spend a good few minutes thinking up a name for the pup. Finally "How about Scout?" Steve offers. "Scout?" Sounds pretty good. Buck smiles gently. "I like it."

 

And then of course, that day, Bucky gets into a fight.

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn't aiming to upset the guy. In fact, he's not even sure what he did to warrant a stiff sock in the mouth, but there he was.

 

A bit of a 'disagreement' had broken out between two truckers who'd stopped for a pint. It wasn't anything serious, yet. But there were words, which progressively were getting louder and meaner.

Benny's so small that they don't even give him a second thought. Roselle's in the back room, looking for a specific brand of whiskey. And the patrons, well, aren't exactly lining up to get in between the large, intimidating men. So, trying to be 'a good person', trying to do the right thing, be the good guy, and quite frankly not really wanting to have to clean up the potential mess that could be made here, Buck intervenes.

"Hey, let's break it up!" He says with a shockingly commanding boom that even surprises him slightly. The men (and the room) quiet down, freeze, and stare him down.

The less angry of the men sits down with a grumble and a grunt, but the larger and more aggressive of them looks like he wants to protest. "Sir, I'm gonna need you to calm down, or leave." It takes an unexpected amount of energy to continue with that commanding tone. But it seems to be useful, as the man glares him down but slowly shuffles to the exit, bumping violently into his shoulder as he goes past.

The man feigns the exit. He produces a beer bottle secretely and in an instant, circles back and delivers a blow squarely to Bucky's cheek, between his mouth and his jaw.

 

It's impressive; and even manages to daze him for a second as he staggers back, reeling. Patrons gasp in shock. But Bucky isn't going down that easily.

Now, while he  _is_ missing the huge benefit of an arm, he certainly isn't stranger to a threat like this. Not by a long shot.

But Buck isn't going to use too much force. He promises himself. And Ms. Rose, and Steve. She doesn't deserve to have a mess like that happen here. Or to have her trust betrayed so viscerally. And Steve, well.. Steve's his  _own_ reason.

Bucky percieves the faint sensation of warm wet running slowly down the side of his cheek and the hot, splitting bruise currently invisibly enveloping the right side of his face in dull, pounding pain.

It would be easy to lose his cool if he didn't have an anchor point.

He composes himself in the way that surely only he (and probably Natasha Romanoff) can, and rises on steady, unphased feet. The angry drunk inevitably charges him again in a futile attempt to down him for good, grabbing the collar of his leather jacket. Barnes trips him with a swift kick through both his legs and delivers a swift but non-lethal pound square to the center of his torso.

The man's sent to the grown with the wind knocked out of him completely. Buck drags him outside and lets him scramble away into the night.

Buck figures he'd better return through the back door rather than the front.

 

The pain he might be in or the look of his face doesn't occur to him until he comes back in a few minutes later and Ms. Roselle nearly drops a crate of alcohol as she gasps in surprise and horror. "Oh God!" She exlaims, and Buck notes that black and blue bruises probably aren't a good look for him.

 

Rose hands the bar over to Ben while she insists on cleaning up the wound. Bucky tells her "It's fine, I can take care of it," but she's not having it. He hasn't seen it, but he's sure it's a lot less of a big deal than she might think it is. After all, his jaw didn't even dislocate, let alone break. But that's perhaps a testament to the Winter Soldier's biological enhancement, rather than to the strength of the hit or the bottle.

It's clear she's not a stranger to injuries to be treated, as she lightly sops up the blood oozing from the big split in skin near Bucky's mouth. She looks annoyed, and concerned at the same time, he sees sitting as still as she told him to on the kitchen table. "I mean, what the hell even  _happened?!_ " She asks, enervated. Buck feels a hot wave of guilt.  _Had_ he done the right thing? Maybe he should've just left it. But then someone could've gotten hurt.

_I made him hit where it doesn't matter. He wasted his shot on me. Wasn't that the right thing to do?_

"A... Two men were going to start a fight. I.. stopped it." Barnes pales a little in front of her. "Okay," She resolves after a beat. "But where's the part where they beat on the side of your face??"

"It was just one of 'em. Hit me with a bottle." It's difficult to move his mouth from some kind of numbness and probable eventual swelling, and makes it hard to talk. He can certainly feel the pain, but that's not of any concern. "I saw him out, though."

Miss Williams sighs and sits back across from Buck, folding her arms. Her brow is furrowed as she searches critically over his form. He stays rigid obediently. "What am I gonna do with you, James?" She asks, with a small, tired smile.

Bucky's throat tightens.

 

"What am I gonna do with you, Steve?" Bucky said countless times, when Steve came to him with ten bruises and a bold, brave smile,

when Steve put himself in the hospital from his asthma acting up in the cold,

when Steve refused to back down from his want to join the war, even after so many denials.

 

"What am I gonna do with you, Bucky?" Steve asked, when Buck would come home half sober with a spilled drink down his shirt,

when buck would get him _self_ beat when heroically (and unnecessarily) saving Steve's hide,

when Buck had those sleepless nights on the cold, muddy ground after his rescue.

 

Barnes' eyes start to sting. He chokes his heart back down his throat and smiles.

 

Roselle reaches under a table and pulls up some more medical supplies, quickly rummaging through them to find a large bandage. She slathers it with antibiotic and spreads it ever so gently over the red and black split on Bucky's cheek. He stays utterly still and quiet and he and Wiliams lock eyes for a moment as she leans in to closer inspect her work. She smiles, pulling back and puffing her chest in satisfaction. "There, see? I can do it."

"Oh, I didn't doubt that you could, ma'am." He answers quietly. "I just.. It's not necessary, really. I would've been fine."

Rose scoffs and punches his arm playfully. "Like hell you would. Have you  _seen_ your face recently?"

"Well.. no."

Miss Rose takes a long-suffering sigh and pats Buck on the shoulder, goes to the fridge and tosses a whiskey his way. "Go, take a shower, get some rest. You've earnt it."

 

She turns and shuffles back towards the bar. "Thank you," He calls. She turns and pauses, before giving him a smile, and turning back.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky doesn't want to call Steve tonight.

 

Okay well, that's a lie, he  _does,_ but what he  _doesn't_ want, is to worry Steve, or scare him, or make him angry. He has a feeling he'd do a little of all three with the current state he's in.

But he  _promised;_ he thinks as the warm water drips from his forehead down his cheek.

"Just.. promise me you'll call? Just once a day? So I.. So we know you're safe?" Steve asked on Tuesday, right before bed. He noticed the slip-up and it's clear as crystal that as always, Steve's worried for him, but so is perhaps Shuri, and possibly even King T'Challa. And  _of course_ Bucky promised, because Steve is Steve. So, he guesses he'll have to do some apologizing for getting a bit roughed up.

Bucky runs his hand up and down the black cap stretched over the remains of his prosthetic, the water making the material shiny and smooth. It's stinging again; his psyche feeling so strongly that his arm should be there. It helps a little bit to feel the empty space, to remind his conscious, or subconscious, or whatever it is, that  _no,_ there isn't an arm there, sadly. Apparently it gets a lot worse in the shower, or the rain, or under a blanket. The stimulation of the skin everywhere at once makes it even more apparent that something is wrong with the fact that his left arm  _can't feel it._ But of course, it can't feel, because it's not there.

However the water feels good on his wound. The cotton barrier between it and the world makes it soothing to feel the warm water seep through and dampen the skin underneath. Bucky'd seen it before he went in to wash, peeling back the bandage a little. The nasty, bleeding gash had all around it bruises which were surely going to swell overnight.

He’s glad the patch covers so much of it. At least then, maybe Steve won’t be _so_ worried. Bucky sighs and turns off the water. He resigns himself to the inevitable call as he sneaks silently down the stairs. This one was gonna have a rocky start.

 


	9. Pulling a Bucharest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky can't sleep. And Roselle is patient with a stressed-out insomniac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's note: Welcome to the new year, everyone! I hope you enjoyed your school break and had a nice Candlenights/Holidays. I sure did! And the break definitely let me think clearer and be ready to provide you with some new content! I think the direction I'm going is, I'm going to finish this story with another chapter after this, most likely much longer than the others, and then I'm going to start work on a completely separate storyline still involving the Avengers, but mostly revolving around Steve and Bucky, including me and my friend's characters, haha. But don't worry! After that, I will most likely return to this story, with a second part! So stay tuned!]  
> [P.S.- I'll also probably be vastly editing SBT ("Steve, Bucky, and the Troublemakers"), or just completely deleting it and starting fresh with different format, since the current format I feel is messy and not as good as it could be, representatively. But the story won't change! It's still my and my friends thing and we want to show it to you. We're just not sure the best way to do that yet. So prepare for that. Alright, that's it. Hope this is a good chapter! :D ]

Bucky sits in silence with his knees tucked close to is chest, his arm around his legs. His teeth grind in his head as his chin rests on his kneecaps. He plays the call back over and over again: Steve's initial fear, then anger, then arching worry. 'Please, try to be more careful, don't do that ever again," Steve had said, and all thoughts of similar actions immediately vanished from Bucky's head.

It puts him in sheer agony to make Steve worry like that.

That streak of good days he had going? Nothing. Perhaps life needed to remind him that he doesn't deserve it. The call had ended abruptly and without resolve; There was a rather violent knock at Steve's door and suddenly he was saying goodbye.

It isn't self pity for which Buck feels so sick to his stomach, but rather Steven's well being. A goodbye like that definitely isn't his style and whatever happened to him can't be good.

 

He does breathing exercises— ones that both Shuri and Sam taught him— but to no avail. He flexes and unflexes his-- oh wait, he doesn't have a left hand anymore. Funny, he almost tricked himself into thinking he did again. He distracts himself as best he can by contemplating hard about it. What it feels like to have his mind sort of  _wish_ there is still an arm there, what it feels like to try and move something that isn't there. But it kind of makes him a little more sick.

_What?_

_Oh. It's raining._

 

It was sweating hot just two something weeks ago, but already it's starting to cool down. Once it catches Bucky's attention he lets it run away with him instead. A lot easier than staying where he is. He pretends like he's out there, in the vast expanse of dust and fresh mud outside. With the bleak, inviting sky all around, those big wet clouds and the deafening, ceaseless sound of the rain. A place to dissolve all thought.

Time passes: Slowly, or quickly, he can't tell or doesn't care to know. Or both.

When Buck finally stops shaking enough to lay down he stares up at the white featureless ceiling barely visible in the darkness. A tiny green light on the side of Shuri's gifted laptop blinks on and off every few moments, casting a faint blurry glow above him. Watching the thing doesn't make his stomach feel any better by a long shot.

_Would Ms. Williams be mad if I left the house in the middle of the night?_

 

 

It's times like these where Bucky feels incredibly drained. Even more so than usual. When all the decades sort of catch up to him, when he how broken he and Steve really are, all the secrets that used to rest on their backs. Fate had had plans for he and Steve back in the twenties, and they weren't pretty. By now, Buck feels like giving Fate a piece of his mind.

He hopes that he'll fall asleep in a few minutes. He hopes maybe his phone will ring and Steve will be just fine. But even if it did, Bucky doesn't know if he'd have the bravery enough right now to face Steve his face still all busted up, judging on how badly that went last time. He hopes maybe Shuri will come and save him from his own brain collapsing in on itself one day, but he doubts it. He hopes tomorrow he can just go back to being the stoic, hard working vet that Ben and Miss Rose expect him to be. Maybe just forget this ever happened.

He hopes maybe this awful nauseous feeling will go away. 

 

A flash of light and a thunderclap blink him out of it. The rain starts pouring even harder now.

After a beat Bucky resolves to  _really_ drown out the anxiety. He closes his eyes and breathes in and out rhythmically, focusing all his attention on the sound. The drops that hit the window, the echo of lightning from miles away, the sound of the air around him moving in and out of his lungs.

At some point he winks out for no more than about five minutes. But then it all comes back.

After that he decides to find out it Ms. Rose keeps any sleeping pills and vodka on hand at any given time. He's thinking about pulling a move he would've done back in Bucharest— he's done this before, but he doesn't think Steve would approve.

_Well Steve isn't here right now, is he?_

 

* * *

 

Tonight Rose just can't seem to shut her lights out. It's a struggle from the time she gets into bed to a half our afterward. She isn't even looking at her phone right now. And so about a couple hours later, give or take, she gives up.  _Might as well do something useful,_ she thinks, slipping out of bed and padding towards her wardrobe. She yanks on a pair of sweats under her t-shirt as the rain begins to fall outside.

Williams smiles. The rain is the best part of the desert in her eyes. If it lasts long enough, there might even be little flower buds growing, peeking up out of the ground in the morning. A little bit of beautiful life springing from the dead ground. Roselle crosses her fingers that will happen, they haven't got rain in weeks. She stares at her window, watching the dark grey sky, punctuated every few minutes by a bright spear of light in the distance reaching from the clouds. Then it fades, just as quickly, and Roselle counts the seconds between it disappearing and the crack of thunder reaching her ears.

She doesn't know for how long she watches it but at some point she hears the gentle click of Bucky's door and the minuscule little squeak it makes. Minutes after the floorboards outside her room creak rhythmically. It's surprisingly quiet for how heavy and towering Bucky is, she ponders as he comes creaking back down the hallway and sneaks down the stairs. She wonders for a moment if the thunder woke him up.

 

* * *

 

Buck searches carefully through the medicine cabinet for anything remotely similar to sleeping pills. A blue box with a crescent moon and some Z's on the front— That's gotta be it, right?

Bucky had already scavenged a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff from the fridge. This isn't the greatest idea, but  _fuck it,_ it's the middle of the night and a super soldier needs sleep now and then. Barnes pops some pills in his mouth and washes them down with the burning sensation of the alcohol, finishing the thing in one go. by the time he drops the bottle in the trash and puts the pill box back in the bathroom, he greatly regrets his course of action.

 

While the serum may save him from some grave effects this time around, he's going to have a hell of a time for the rest of the night. This is a  _lot_ different to how it was in Bucharest. Apparently, the alcohol was weaker, or the pills were better, or maybe both.

Bucky has to grip the doorframe to keep himself from toppling over right there. He makes a grunt of displeasure and a groan of regret before doing his best to make his downstairs.

At least now, he's feeling drowsy enough to—  _Wait, oh God--_

 

Bucky throws up in the rain with his hand and knees in the mud and his clothes soaked through. The cool water makes his hair stick to his neck, which luckily keeps it out of the way of whatever the hell he's coughing up.  _Steve's gonna know,_ and Steve's gonna kick his ass.

If he'd thought a little harder about it, what a stupid decision this was, especially after being sick to his stomach less than an hour ago, maybe he wouldn't be in this predicament right now.

But then maybe if he hadn't been such a temperamental loser and just  _stayed in Wakanda,_ the situation for he and maybe even Steve would be a lot more pleasant now.

Barnes realizes that there are some ( _*many_ ) in which he isn't thinking rationally. Steve being the chief of them.

Once his stomach is settled enough— only by virtue of him expelling all of its contents back up his throat— he crawls under the tin roof to a beam under the back porch. with a pathetic groan he props himself back on it and stares listlessly into the night.

With Bucky's luck he'll probably fall asleep under here and wake up dehydrated, coated with a thin layer of dried rain water.

He needs to rethink about a lot of things.

Scout the german shepard pads over and gently lays its head on Bucky's lap, laying down next to him a sympathetic wag of its tail. Bucky sighs.

He's too lightheaded to stand up and go inside. So he catches the rain to wash out his mouth. 

 

* * *

 

Roselle heard Bucky stumble downstairs in a manner that, for as much as she knows him, is very odd in an alarming way.

After several minutes she finds him outside on the back porch, soaked and pale and miserable as he knees on all threes, piteously heaving onto the mud. She spies him through the window in the door. After a while, only when he's fast asleep and most likely in a drug-induced unconsciousness does she gently open the door. Scout jumps up and looks at her with wagging tail, whimpering on behalf of its new master. "I know, I know, weird and unfortunate, isn't he?" She sighs.

Roselle's almost certain she wouldn't be able to do this under any other circumstances, for the fact that she would almost certainly find herself at the end of some kind of knife before either of them even realized what was happening, but she hefts him up by his arm as best she can and drags him inside. He's almost too heavy to carry and he's certainly too frigid and wet to put in bed yet. She half-carries him to his room and props him up on the wall. Scout follows.

Bucky looks awful, between his currently pale, sickly-looking skin and those big dark bags under his eyes. "What am I gonna do with him? Sometimes it seems like either he's trying to kill someone else, or trying to kill  _himself."_   She says to Scout, who waits patiently by. "Guess that's what I get for taking in a strange dangerous man." She huffs, but it's more sad humor than anything.

"But then again, what he did at that fight.." Miss Rose contemplates, more to herself than the mutt. It reminds her of dad, the way he pacified the situation regardless of his own injury. She remembers the way her father used to put his own health, even his life, on the line to come to peace after a threat. One incident is brought to her mind specifically: That day at the diner. A man came in, who looked like him— not the cleanest, even a little haggard— with a gun in hand. The man shouted desperately and hoarsely about what he was going to do, either kill himself or take down whoever stood in his way. It wasn't clear whether he wanted money, or food, or attention, but Rose's father stood up right away. It wasn't quite confidence... more a calmness and steadiness of a man who understood what was happening in the mind of that stranger, that moved him. Calmly, and gently, he spoke the man down. Even going to hold the man's shoulder as he eventually dropped the gun and broke down. Her father  _understood_ , for he had been in a similar mindset all too many times. Why the man was doing what he did, and how he came to it. And her dad made everyone else there that day understand too. And that, among the many things he accomplished, was one of the reasons Roselle _knew_ her father's a hero. And what makes her think Bucky might be one too. Perhaps, just with a different way of solving things.

Now all she has to do is figure out  _Bucky's_ hows and whys.

 

She blankets the couch in towels and wraps Buck tight in them, sopping up as much water as possible. She takes special attention to Bucky's hair and face because she obviously can't cover it, and well, that face needs some special attention anyway. He still looks piteous, but at least now, he's dry. And goodness, his hair curls a lot more after rain than after a shower. Rubbing his scalp down she sees locks of brown hair start to form soft, fuzzy curls framing the sides of his face at his chin. And when she brings in a space heater from the storage room (and she can't forgive herself for not giving it to him before), The color finally starts to flush back into his face, his cheeks even getting a little rosy. Like this, even with the gash on his face, he looks as perfect as a picture. No tension in his shoulders, no cautious wrinkles in his face, no toil in the rising and falling of his chest. He looks so much more peaceful than usual and it makes Roselle feel a lot better, if only sad that it won't last longer than a day. If only she could let him stay like this, forever.

Scout nudges Roselle's hand gratefully with his nose, hopping up onto the couch and curling up on top of his master's legs. He looks up at her with big eyes and wags his tail slowly. "Yeah, you're welcome, you two.." She smiles weakly. Satisfied with her job, Rose thumbs Buck's cheek sweetly, pets the mutt on the head, closing the door behind her to return to her room.

 

* * *

 

Barnes wakes up in is bed covered in towels and with Scout snoozing on top of him. It's puzzling at first until he realizes that he probably made a nasty racket last night.  _Damn,_ he thinks, sliding himself out of the cocoon.  _Why'd I have to go and do that. I have to tell her I'm still fit for duty, I just made a mistake, God I'm an idiot--_

The phone rings suddenly and makes him jump three feet. It's Steve,  _of course_ _it's Steve_ , and Buck desperately wants to pick up but he just can't shake the fact that, even if he turned the camera off, Steve would still  _know_ he was busted up. But he promised he'd call every morning, every night, and if he didn't live up to that? Might as well not talk to Steve at all.

Buck's hand is shakier than he means to be when he picks up the phone. "...Steven?" He tests softly. His throat's a little sore from last night and he tries not to let it show in his voice.

"I.. Bucky? What happened to you? Did you get hurt  _since last night?_ " It shows.  _Fuck._

He  _knew_ Steve would find out. Nothing  _ever_ gets past him, especially when it comes to Buck. Buck bites his tongue and makes a firm line with his mouth. "Steve, I'm perfectly fine, my cut is even healing quickly. W-What about you? What happened to you last night? I was so damn worried about you I just couldn't sleep," Bucky pauses. "And I sort of.. passed out."

"Bucky!" The sudden panicked tone of Rogers' voice makes Bucky choke. "Steve, I'm fine, I swear, I promise!" He affirms solidly. "Just tell me about what happened to you, please."

An audible drawn out sigh comes from the other end of the line. "Okay, alright. But you're not gonna like it."

 

People stormed him. Ambushed  _Steve._ Of course he handled it, handled it easily but still. Nat (who was accompanying Steven for the time being) said she didn't think them finding him had anything to do with his communication, but more operatives plugged in every which way around him, tracking his movements, finding his living quarters. It makes Bucky's blood boil.  _I should be there with him,_ he grits his teeth as he listens to Nat's rundown of the night before.  _I should be there protecting him, like I'm supposed to._ If only Buck hadn't met the lovely Miss Rose; then he could leave and go to Steve with no strings attached. But now...

"I gotta call you back, Buck. I'm sorry but we're just coming up on this place. I promise our call tonight will be much longer. I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Be safe. I.. Please. Call you later."

Barnes barely has time to say goodbye before the line's dead. And he's left there, alone, once again.

Tonight better come quickly.

 

Roselle found Buck outside on the front porch, a couple empty water bottles next to him. Bucky glances up at her guiltily and his jaw weakly tightens.

”Hm. Last night- Vodka and sleeping pills?” She asks.

Buck looks up at her this time. “How did you...”

”Accidents happen,” Rose says. “Thanks for not throwing up on my flooring.”

”Ma’am.” He answers, voice a little better this time. Rose pads over next to him. “May I?”

”.. ‘Course, ma’am. He replies. Her socks and sweats get a little damp, but no wetter than they did last night. She doesn’t mind.

”You look awful.” She says sweetly. Buck smiles a little. “Thanks.” She shifts to look out over the vast dark field of wetted dirt in front of her pub. The sun’s rising, but to her surprise it’s not immediately hot yet. ‘Rain must’ve marked the start of fall.’ She thinks.

”You got into a lot of trouble yesterday.”

Buck’s smile fades. “Sorry ma’am.”

”Nah, was that other guy’s fault. Tell me if you see him again. I’ll get the shotgun. Guys like those are usually repeat offenders.” Ms. Rose assures.

”..Thank you.”

 

Roselle thinks it might not be the best time to start another interrogation with Bucky, but she thinks she’s earned it.

”Think I could sneak in another question or two, James?”

His Name startles him a bit and he doesn’t answer right away. Barnes shifts his gaze instead to the hazy expanse beyond the concrete porch. The rain made good work of cooling the hot desert sand, and now there’s a faint hint of mist in the air. It’s quite relaxing. He stares for a few beats, before resolving. “By all means, Roselle.” He relents equally to her prompting.

They volley questions off each other until the sun is up. But it’s barely brighter than it was because despite the rain having left, the clouds still linger.

Rose asks him about his friend on the phone. She asks if he has any family anywhere, where he went overseas, if he has any friends in places.

As he spent the majority of the 20th Century in cold, unforgiving isolation, and everyone he knew up to 2014 did nothing but lie to and torture him, he has to think about it hard. He comes to the conclusion that he only has about five. He’s got Nat, and Sam (but Sam’s more a therapist than strictly a friend), Shuri, and _maybe_  T’Challa. But to be fair, inviting someone into your country not only to shelter them, but also repair them after you thought they killed your father, is an _awful_ friendly gesture. But most of all, he had **Steve**.

He tells Rose he doesn’t have many friends, with a chuckle. “Two girls I met, who turned out to be better than my in _every way,_  two guys who had to put up with me during my worst days, and..” Bucky thinks of how to phrase it. “My oldest pal. With me since the beginning, through thick and thin. We were even in the same unit overseas.” Rose can see his eyes glow with remembrance and respect for the last friend he mentions. “ _He’s_ who I talk to on the phone, to answer your first question. While I’m gone he swore he’d call me every day.” Bucky’s cheeks get a little pink talking about him.

Second question’s easy. “No family I know of, then again they haven’t really got in touch with me if there is.” How true that is. Hell, Bucky could have _nieces and nephews_ he’s never even heard about. But honestly, maybe it’s better if they don’t _get_ to know.

But there’s only one definite answer to the last question. He _could_  say, he practically served in almost every country there is. But not of his own will. So he decides, the only real place where it mattered to him, where the work he did was work he was proud of, Germany.

”How about you? Where’d your dad serve?” Buck asks softly.

”Oh, you know, probably Vietnam or Afghanistan, one of those places. I wasn’t old enough to remember exactly what and when, but I know for sure he did a lot to help over there. You might’ve seen him once, he said he was in Germany for a little while during a transfer.” Rose sounds like a young girl as she talks about her father. It’s sweet to see and softens Bucky’s heart a little bit. “Maybe I did,” he replies, just to make her feel better.

 

A car pulls up and out of it comes a tan, stunning woman with some of the darkest curly hair he’s ever seen, cut to her shoulders. “Fancy seeing you out here, Rosie. Looks like you finally found yourself a man.” The woman looks briefly over to Bucky and gives him a smug wink. Buck can’t help it when he ducks his head with a shy smile and almost flushed cheeks. Rose scoffs but the lady continues. “Be careful hon, looks like a heartbreaker!” She giggles as she walks past into the bar.

”You be nice, Dana! Bucky’s a good, hardworking boy!” Roselle calls after her fake-scoldingly. All she receives in reply is a hard laugh.

”W-well, I should probably go in and see to her, then.” Bucky starts to stand but Rose drags him back down by the shoulder. “Benny’ll get her sorted. You still owe me some questions, _heartbreaker._ ” Rose smirks and that makes Barnes laugh a tick.


End file.
